A Musician’s Creative Journey
If you missed it, you can read Week Eleven of my Musician’s Creative Journey, where I explore the things that often go unnoticed.
This post is the latest installment of my ongoing series, A Musician’s Creative Journey— a weekly practice of reflection through music, writing, and daily life.
In Week 12, I find myself reflecting on the things that keep me grounded—my insatiable hunger to understand, God, the need for solitude, the power of love, imagination, and, through the lens of both the micro and macro, how I begin to balance my worldview.
My life as an artist has been one of constant creative movement—laced with nonstop travel, writing my way through pain and in search of clarity, recording, teaching, and learning to juggle both plates and knives. With Post-it notes that often reminded me to laugh instead of cry. But something has shifted in society—the common coordinates I’ve always known feel displaced. We are all glued to our screens—but what are we looking for?
I’ve always been someone who follows my heart, walks hand in hand with my muse, and explores each path that presents itself without fear of consequence or what others might think. But lately, it feels like society is coming unmoored. I’ve always lived outside the box—but now it’s no longer a box, it’s a bubble.
People often ask if I’m always so serious, and I say yes, of course. But I have a fierce sense of humor, and I love to laugh until it hurts.
Maybe I just need to find a park with a swing set—and pretend to be a kid.
Thank you for being part of this creative journey.
—k
Day One
March 19th, 2026
A wall of resonance.
Exploring the intersection of sound and spirituality tonight at St. Thomas.God—my need to understand.
Religion frames a narrative that gives voice to our relationship with God. Spirituality frames our relationship with everything we hold as sacred. For each person, and every culture, these frameworks can look very different.
Me? I was raised Southern Baptist. Dyslexic—before books on tape, CDs, and Audible—my understanding of the world was shaped solely through my observation of the world around me. My uncle Bob, the Rev. Bob W. Brown, pastor of Trinity Baptist Church, through stories and sermons, taught us that Jesus represented peace, love, acceptance, and nonjudgment. The Holy Spirit was a mysterious guide, a trusted source for direction, if I prayed and chose to listen. God was the judge who determined my fate.
When I was 15 years old, I got an electric guitar. By the time I graduated high school, my worldview had changed and broadened, and my need for answers was insatiable. In late 2019 right before the pandemic, after 3 decades of touring, I discovered the handpan. Little did I know that a flying saucer with notes—played like both a piano and a drum—would capture my imagination, rekindle my relationship with music, and open the door to a meditative state within my contemplative journey.
Beyond the walls of the church, and beyond the strings of an old Fender Strat, I found my way back—this time through the lens of an adult who has remained connected to that small child while embracing the realities of a life fully lived. The church I attend now welcomes me with open arms. It provides a place to honor what I call sacred, to experience unconditional love, gather hope, and to contribute in whatever way I feel called.
The best of all, as an artist and Musician, I get to play my handpan in a sanctuary with acoustics I wouldn’t have access to anywhere else.
It’s not complicated. It’s a place where I exchange complication for contemplation, judgment for discernment, and am reminded of the importance of walking in love—in a world that often feels like a desert, with people all around searching for a bucket of water.
How we love says everything about who we are.
Day Two
March 20th, 2026
A quiet space.
To think, create, write.
A sanctuary—
separate from the chaos of the world.
When I moved to Cincinnati, I lived in a mansion at the end of Bigelow Street, on top of Liberty Hill in Mount Auburn, overlooking the city. Twenty years later, that mansion was torn down and replaced with condos.
The downstairs living room of that mansion had large windows forming a panoramic view of the city below with a solarium off the bedroom upstairs directly above. Those windows remind me of the windshield of my first vehicle—a Dodge Ram pickup truck with a camper top, purchased for me by my mother in 1980. From a string of pickup trucks to two RVs, and eventually a Sprinter van that I racked up over 300,000 miles on before coming off the road, each windshield seemed to grow larger as I traveled across the country in a tin can—like a small tank—carrying band members who, at times, seemed more like truck drivers, tiny soldiers, or even aid workers on a mission to deliver the blues.
My first house, in Deer Park—a suburb that spans just one square mile—had its two back bedroom windows knocked out so I could install doors and build a screened-in deck, which I later glassed in before selling seven years later to downsize my life.
I bought an 800-square-foot condo with an 8-by-16-foot balcony, where I could sit on my couch and look out through the sliding glass doors—my living room doubling as my studio.
I renovated and flipped that space, quickly outgrew it, and moved again—this time to a place in the woods, where I screened in a 12-by-32-foot deck, and now I dream of enclosing it in glass as soon as possible.
Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve created a sacred space—a place to sit, watch the world, write, contemplate, pray, practice guitar, and explore new music.
The handpan. Native American flutes. Drums, gongs, Tibetan bowls, crystal bowls. Candles. Electronics.
My playground. My grown-up vision.
A space where I can follow my creative journey and bring to life whatever I feel inspired to create.
Day Three
March 21st, 2026
Two charms from my grandmother’s charm bracelet.
A constant reminder that I was loved and prayed for every day.Priceless.
Growing up, my grandmother Brown was my world. My mother had her charm bracelet, and as I’ve been going through boxes from my childhood—and from my parents’ lives well lived—I rediscovered it.
These are the two charms I chose to wear on a chain. Two small pieces that remind me I was, and always will be, loved.
We were never rich in money, but we were always rich in love.
And no amount of money can replace the power of that.
Day Four
March 22nd, 2026
Peace comes through honoring the humanity in everyone.
A simple reflection of a deeper truth.
It’s hard to find a picture of me where I’m not holding up a peace sign. I don’t have to think about it—my elbow bends, my two fingers rise, and a smile breaks through whatever is going on in my mind.
This peace sign represents something I choose to believe in, something I hold onto as real.
And I’ll never let it go.
Day Five
March 23rd, 2026
Some things just take time.
Trust what is still becoming.
When I was a kid, I loved to climb trees, hang upside down on my swing set, lie on my back on the merry-go-round, and—when it stopped spinning—watch the clouds form 3D pictures in the sky.
I’ve experienced the redwoods in Muir Woods National Monument, the changing leaves at Red River Gorge, the mountains of Colorado, the hiking trails of the White Mountains in New Hampshire—and the woods in my own backyard.
I like trees.
They keep the world alive—and that’s something worth thinking about.
Day Six
March 24th, 2026
Rooted and grounded,
even when the road winds on.
While walking along a path at the Cincinnati Nature Center, I came across a tree rooted right in the middle of the trail. You had to walk around it.
I had to take a picture.
Some things in life can’t be avoided. Some of those things, once accepted, reveal their beauty—and their permanence.
Each day, I’m reminded that the things I’ve taken for granted throughout my life are no longer guaranteed. The roots of society feel exposed.
When I saw this tree, I wondered how deep those roots went—and how much weather it could withstand.
As I walk with my mother through the final stage of her life, reflecting on all the memories we’ve shared, I’m deeply aware of how precious life is—and how precious the people around us are.
Our lives are much like trees.
Sometimes we bend. Sometimes we break.
But it’s our roots that hold us in place.
Day Seven
March 25th, 2026
Worlds within our world—
so close, so connected…
and still divided by the walls we’ve built.
I went to Mount Adams the other night to try out a new camera lens. I’m still figuring out what I’m doing with so many lenses—and still searching for the right backpack, tripod, and to-go coffee mug.
I love all the pictures I took. I like this one.
From the top of Mount Adams, I could see life below—a quiet suburban street tucked into an urban landscape, beside the river and the interstate where everything passes through.
This image represents both the macro and the micro.
As I sit here today on my blue couch, looking out my window past the wind chimes and through the trees, I can almost see the Miami River. I hear gunshots from the Indian Hill firing range and glance over at my wall of handpans.
Everywhere we are holds both a micro and macro view of the world.
I watch as two cardinals fly from branch to branch just outside my window. The moment I think about grabbing my camera, they disappear.
A reminder: some things aren’t meant to be captured, edited, and shared.
Some things are meant to simply be experienced.
It’s not complicated.
Wrap Up
This concludes Week 12. I remain committed to this creative journey, taking it one day at a time. I’ve had breakthroughs in the studio, opening new possibilities for weaving spoken word into the instrumental pieces I’m writing. It’s an amazing time to embrace technology, and a critical time to hold fast to my roots—to stay grounded.
Each image I share serves as a thumbnail, a steady reminder to pause, reflect, and stay the course.
Bye for now… Week Thirteen (coming soon)
— k
An Invitation to Write
Set a timer for ten minutes. Write without stopping. Don’t edit, don’t second-guess—just let it come.
Writing Prompts
Write about something you did as a child that you wish you could do again. What would it feel like if you allowed yourself to play?
Describe a conversation you find difficult but know you need to have.
Resources
My favorite interview this week—NYU professor teaches the art of writing (Ocean Vuong interview).
Here are a few featured tracks from my catalogue:
Leave the Blues Behind
Run Like Hell
Seek out something new this week—and let it surprise you.
—k
P.S. My Substack is growing. It’s a space to go deeper beyond the weekly posts into the thoughts and questions that don’t fit neatly into a caption. I’d love for you to join me there.
